the capacity to be alone
by live.die.be
Summary: Sherlock, John, and the transition from being a person with no people to being a friend.
1. the capacity to be alone

**the capacity to be alone****  
**

* * *

People, as a general rule, dislike Sherlock. He's abrasive and blunt, and asks all the right questions at all the wrong times. Sherlock knows this, he's a high functioning sociopath, he wouldn't be that without _knowing_ people; what they like, what they dislike, what drives them. He knows what bits of his personality are the most distasteful, knows what he'd have to do to change them, to blend in with the peons.

Sherlock _knows_, he's done it; blended in by acting normal, during the Dark Years just after Mycroft left to take a job with the government, and when Sherlock was still worried that maybe Mycroft had left because of him, because he wasn't normal. (When Sherlock had still thought that maybe if he was normal enough that Mycroft would come back.)

But normality was _boring_, people mundane and empty-headed and dull. It made _Sherlock_ feel mundane and empty-headed and dull, and he learned fast that he wasn't _built_ to be normal. He'd say the wrong thing or do something strange, and people would look at him in a way that reminded him of how Mycroft would when he was littler. A little sad, if it was a minor infraction that he should know not to do, or appalled, if it was something more extreme.

And then he learned that cocaine made him faster and smarter and brighter than ever, it explained away even the worst of his bad habits through drug-addict-eccentricity.

(Sherlock learned. Sherlock learned. Sherlock learned.)

(Mycroft never came back.)

* * *

John is the war, and if he is not the war, then he is nothing.

It was wonderful, wonderful work, patching up wounded soldiers in the field, knowing that _he_ _was saving lives_. He loved it, loved the adrenaline and the echo of gunfire ringing in his ears; he loved all of it.

(Queen and country, Sherlock says once, derisively. The thing is, that was never the reason, never the point. He just wanted to _save_ people, be a hero. Sherlock wouldn't ever understand that, though, so John doesn't try to explain.)

Then John is no longer the war, and he is nothing. "Nothing ever happens to me," he tells his therapist, and it's really not nearly as much of a hyperbole as he would like it to be. Nothing ever happens to him.

He meets Mike Stanford in the park, and trips over a precipice. Then there is Sherlock, a whirlwind of chaotic energy, tearing through John's life. He is his own sort of war, one that John is not entirely sure that he wants to fight. (He doesn't fight.)

It would be impossibly easy to fall into Sherlock's world and never find his way back out. He sometimes suspects that's what happened to Molly, to Lestrade. (But the thing is, the thing is, John doesn't want to find his way back out.)

* * *

Sherlock meets John and his world changes. He's _used_ to being alone, he's always been alone, ever since Mycroft decided that government was more appealing than Sherlock. People don't like him and he's not _normal_, and that's why they _don't_ like him.

But he's long-since given up on caring what people think, because they are mundane and empty-headed and dull, and for the most part beneath his attention.

Sherlock has never been a misunderstood genius, he knows what he's doing when he pushes buttons, and it's _fun _baiting people for reactions. He says what he knows will have an effect, and people are always so _predictable_, so boring.

John is not predictable. John says, "Amazing," when Sherlock shows off and deduces John's entire existence in a few sentences. He doesn't say, "Fuck off," or punch Sherlock in the face, or start crying when he says things that are truths.

John is not normal, and John has a limp that is all in his head. John is a doctor, and served in Afganistan, and he doesn't run in the other direction even when he sees Sherlock at his worst/best at a crime scene, as calculating and impersonal as anything.

He chases after Sherlock, and he surprises himself by letting himself be caught.

Suddenly Sherlock is not alone. It's a strange feeling, to have another person. One that he hasn't felt since Mycroft left and didn't come back and became Sherlock's arch-enemy.

John is _there_, someone Sherlock can rely on. It's something that he takes for granted, but he doesn't know any other way to be. He hasn't cared what people thought of him in a long time, because people don't know _anything_, but he cares about what John thinks, because if he does something bad enough then maybe John will leave too, like Mycroft did.

But John doesn't care that Sherlock isn't normal, or that he doesn't pretend to be normal, and John doesn't _want_ Sherlock to change.

(John isn't Mycroft, and he isn't going to leave, but Sherlock still worries that one day he _will_.)

(John isn't Mycroft, and he isn't going to leave, but sometimes he worries that one day _Sherlock_ will.)

* * *

note: this is the start of a series of ficlets. feedback is much appreciated; the Sherlock fandom is a new and unfamiliar place for me to write in.


	2. the solitude we are

**the solitude we are**

* * *

Sherlock is lonely in a way that is so deeply ingrained that it's an essential part of who he is. He was lonely as a child with only Mycroft for company since other children didn't like him at all. But even Mycroft wasn't quite a companion; he could never quite understand Sherlock the way that he wanted to be understood. Mycroft was always too concerned with social climbing and his _precious_ career to find time enough to even _try_ to understand him, and anyways; eventually Mycroft left too.

Mycroft left like _everyone_ did; it's always an eventuality with people. It's not just a possibility that could happen, it's a fact that has happened and will happen again. But Sherlock lies to himself the way that he lies to everyone and tells himself that it's not ever a great loss, people are silly and stupid, and he doesn't need them.

He lies to himself like he lies to others, but the difference between him and the others is that he can never actually _believe_.

Loneliness is a motivator nearly as powerful as love, one that can be even more dangerous.

* * *

John is alone. He doesn't speak to any of his family, only Harry, and even that's infrequent. It's not that he doesn't try, it's more that they're all raging alcoholics who never approved of his life choices, and eventually he thought: _You don't mean anything at all to me_.

With Harry it's difficult, since more often than not she's drunk when he calls, and John doesn't know to help her, or if there's even anything to do to help her. She is lost and scared and pushes away anyone who means anything to her before they can push her away because she is frightened in an _old_, bone-deep sort of way that they'll leave her. John will never say, but he's more like her than he'd ever choose to be.

* * *

Sherlock is lonely and John is alone, and they are really more suited to each other than either of them will ever admit, because they're both the proudest of men and can't stand to actually _admit_ that they need anyone.

"Because he's a psychopath, and psychopaths get bored," Donovan said, and John is just starting to understand _why_.

Not that he thinks that they'll ever be standing around a body that Sherlock put there, because at the very least Sherlock knows better than to get caught. Which should really not be as much of a comforting thought as it is, but it is one nonetheless.

But he does see what she means about getting bored; if Sherlock is a thunderstorm on a good day, he's a hurricane and a tsunami on a bad one. He's a force of nature at best, a natural disaster if you're lucky.

It is so easy to get swept up in his energy, and more often than not John finds himself racing after him with veins coursing with adrenaline. It's when is limp is almost gone, now, and he finds that he rarely needs to use the cane.

Sherlock's own, particular brand of madness must be catching.

* * *

They're settling into a new life together, cohabitating in one space, and it's sometimes very obvious how different this is for both of them.

Sherlock periodically forgets that John at crime scenes, though that does start to lessen after a month or so, and John sometimes inflicts his temper on Sherlock. It is not a perfect life, but then neither of them expected it to be.

It is a better one, though. For both of them.

* * *

John has nightmares, still. The limp is getting by the day, but the nightmares never leave and probably never will, a more constant and faithful companion than anyone else in his life.

He sometimes wonders how Sherlock can sleep through his screaming, since he knows that he does, has woken up screaming enough times to know it, or whether Sherlock does wake up and has just decided to exercise rare consideration by not mentioning it.

* * *

John is gone, and that's not right, is it? He should be here because he is John and John belongs here.

Sherlock is lonely and it's terrible or familiar or maybe both.

* * *

And then a pang rings in his stomach when John comes back, and a hole he didn't know was there is filled.

_You forget how to be alone_, Sherlock thinks. _You forget the habit of being alone._

* * *

"Do you just carry on talking when I'm away?" John asks, curiously irritated or irritatedly curious. He's tired; the lines of his face are more pronounced and he seems to have aged years while he wasn't here.

"That depends," Sherlock says carelessly, "how often are you away?"

Because contrary to what John thinks, Sherlock does notice when he's gone. He may have to say things a handful of times before realising there's no response, but he does notice.

* * *

With Sherlock, John thinks, you're either everything or nothing; there is no in between.

With Sherlock, you never know what will happen next, and sometimes that's exciting; it exhilarating and reminiscent of Afghanistan. Sometimes, though, it's not. Sometimes John wishes that he could find a moment to breathe. Then he remembers how it was to be alone, and chases after Sherlock again.

* * *

It's that awful point where just enough time has passed since the last case that the self-satisfaction has faded and he's gotten bored, and not enough time has passed for anything interesting to have come up yet. It's only a matter of time until there're body parts turning up in the fridge or the microwave or maybe even the bathtub this time; Sherlock is nothing if not imaginative when it comes to his experiments, and he never _listens_.

"We're out of tea," John calls over his shoulder. In the next room, Sherlock huffs in irritation, and there's the ominous sound of something hitting the wall. John stares at ceiling and sends a silent plea that there won't be new holes in the drywall when he leaves the kitchen.

"Then you should go do the shopping and buy more," Sherlock snipes from where he's lounging on the sofa.

"I didn't think you knew what shopping was," John snarks back. "I expected you thought that things just appeared in the cupboard magically."

"That's what you're for," Sherlock says lightly, suddenly in the doorway where he wasn't before.

"Is that what you think?" John responds, just as light. He doesn't expect an actual answer, Sherlock doesn't freely offer one, and to be entirely honest, John doesn't think he really wants to hear what he has to say.

They don't _talk_; at least not about anything that happens to actually _matter_ to either of them.

There's bitterness lurking under his words and Sherlock's eyes are piercing.

* * *

"Is there anything you wouldn't do for me?" Sherlock asks, words honed sharp and casually cutting.

John stares and stares and stares; it's a familiar expression that Sherlock has seen so many times before. It's confusion and hurt and shock all solidified into one look, and it's never caused Sherlock to feel a reaction of his own until now. He feels something in his chest clench; it might be guilt, though he can't know because he's never felt guilt before.

(See, that's the thing about Sherlock: he's at his most perfectly cruel when he's not even _trying_.)

* * *

his thought's are all in lowercase and none of the puzzle pieces are fitting together where they should. the edge pieces are fitting into the middle and the middle pieces around the edge. it doesn't make sense, and neither does the ringing somewhere in the back of his head, like a voice spoken through deep water. it's saying, "sherlock. sherlock."

"sherlock, you have to eat," john says, clearer now, and yes, maybe that is why his head feels so slow, though that could just be because he hasn't slept in three days.

he tells as much to john, and john frowns the little frown that makes his forehead crinkle up just so. it's the frown that means 'sherlock why can't you be normal', and he's seen the exact one on mycroft's face before. "please," john pleads. "please, sherlock."

he wants to say, "i'm sorry" but the words don't make it past his lips. what comes out instead is, "if you insist," and he takes the cup of tea with shaking hands.

* * *

Sherlock is maddeningly brilliant, even now, sleep deprived and half-starved.

He said used to say that a lot, back when he had first met Sherlock. "That's brilliant," he'd say, and he didn't even really notice he was doing it until Sherlock pointed it out.

After that, he stopped saying it out loud. But even now, when he looks at Sherlock; with his skin pallid and dark circles under his eyes, babbling about connections between cases that John could never hope to follow, he thinks it.

_You're brilliant._

* * *

_"_I don't have _friends_," Sherlock says scornfully, lips twisting in distaste as he leans away from the question.

It's true; he doesn't have friends, and even John is not a _friend_ because friend is too trivial a word to describe what John is.

* * *

"Will caring help save them?"

If John knew when to pick his battles, he'd retreat now and avoid this entirely, since there's no way that either of them will win this fight, and it's not like it's a fight that has only one, clear outcome; both of them are right and both of them are wrong, but neither are willing to admit defeat. But John does not know when to pick his battles, and the only place to move is forward. He says: "Nope," and knows that this is first blood, Sherlock getting in the first blow.

Sherlock sneers; it's an ugly expression that he probably _practiced_ until it was effective enough. "Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"And you find that easy, do you?" John says, it's not quite a question because he doesn't need an answer, he already knows it.

And John does know Sherlock, enough that when Sherlock says, "Yes, very. Is that news to you?" it's an affirmation of an already existing fact.

It shouldn't be a surprise, it's not quite a surprise, and yet it is, because John had still maybe held out a bit of hope that under that cold exterior there was an actual caring human inside of Sherlock, though why he thought that he's not sure. "No... no," he says, quiet and somewhat sad.

Maybe that's the worst part of it, that he's _right_, and why wouldn't he be, since Sherlock never did need to lie to hurt people when the truth was always so much more harsh. Caring won't help save them, so really, what's the point?

"I've disappointed you." The words are picked slowly, deliberately; this is a minefield of a conversation and even Sherlock in all his socially-awkward obliviousness is catching the clues that say this can only blow up in their faces unless they both step carefully.

"That's good, that's good deduction, yeah," John says, nodding slowly. He's tired of this. Sherlock doesn't lie or sugarcoat his words, and John never realised before now how _used_ to lying he'd gotten.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." It's straightforward, a truth laid out bare on the table between them.

His words are unadorned but the expression on his face is impossibly open. There's an apology lurking in the depths of his pale eyes, and John feels more lost than he has in _years_.

* * *

Moriarty steps onto the scene, and something fundamental shifts in the state of the world.

Sherlock has someone to compete with, which is novel and new and entirely unpredictable. He had expected to live out his life the way he always had; a lonely black hole among a sky of stars.

Moriarty knows Sherlock in a way that Mycroft never could, in a way that even John can never, _ever_ understand, because they are the same, and John is not the same. He _knows_ Moriarty, knows what's driving him, what's making him do this.

(He knows, too, how this will end. There is only one way this can end.)

* * *

Sherlock can't be defined in words; that would be too simple, and nothing about Sherlock is simple.

John watches Sherlock, who is as nervous as John has ever seen him, says: "You're never going to stop."

Sherlock jerks, startled, and turns to stare through John, not looking _at_ him because his mind is racing too quickly for him to focus on anything except the case. "Why should I? I'm catching _criminals_, John. I thought that you of all people would understand that," it's said goadingly, like he wants to fight, and John has not yet learned to pick his battles but he _will not_ let Sherlock bait him into this.

But the thing is, John does understand, more than the other man knows, and it's because he understands Sherlock's motivation that he knows Sherlock will continue until everyone is dead. He is the sort who doesn't do anything at all halfway.

John was alone before, and he is alone now, and sometimes with Sherlock he feels like maybe this is even worse than that was before because he has tasted what true companionship is. "It's all for you. He's doing it all for you, and you're _never going to stop_."

Sherlock's mouth opens, and nothing comes out. In the end, he will always be unchangeable and absolute, never changing his mind especially if you actually _want_ him to, since he's stubborn to a fault and contrary in the extreme, which is why his only answer is, "I don't want to."

"_People are dead_!" John shouts, and isn't sure why, since it's not like it'll matter to Sherlock anyways.

After all, Sherlock doesn't believe in something as simple as morals or common courtesy and why should he, when no one else seems to either.

* * *

Sherlock is tired and lonely and he _doesn't want to play this game anymore._ Moriarty was fun, in the beginning, but now he can't stop or else everything will crumble. Sometimes he thinks- he thinks it would be better if he wasn't- if he didn't-

- but, no. He can't think that. That way madness lies.

* * *

"Alone is what I have," Sherlock asserts. "Alone protects me."

John's face is sad and tired and completely resigned. "No," John murmurs, "friends protect people."

Sherlock watches as John turns away, and thinks, _If only you knew_.

* * *

Sherlock can see the end; it's just out of sight.

They're catching up.

* * *

Moriarty kills himself, and Sherlock's world bottoms out. He stares at the body; imagines a world where he kills himself too, and it is good. He can see how this will go.

_(You forget how to be alone_. _You forget the habit of being alone_.)

He finds John on the pavement below, meets his eyes and sees the realisation in them, as John steps forward, like he thinks he can stop this. _You thought I was stronger_, thinks Sherlock. _I'm not_.

Sherlock steps off the edge of the building, and loses himself.

* * *

_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._


	3. sky within us

**sky within us**

* * *

Sherlock steps off the edge of the building and loses himself.

There is only one goal now. Eliminate the last of Moriarty's web; finish this.

He kills someone, a bullet straight through the heart; he always knew that those autopsies would come in handy one day. Mercy is what he can give, even to these criminals. John wouldn't appreciate if he let them suffer.

Through it all, there is one thing clear in his mind: John.

Mycroft knows, and of course Mycroft knows, he's always known Sherlock better than anyone. They think on similar wave-lengths, even if not quite the same. He calls Sherlock on the burner phone, woefully archaic in technology. He says, "Come home."

He says, "Don't do this alone. You don't have to do this alone."

Sherlock throws the phone into the Thames out of spite. (He always works alone.)

Irene knows, too, which is a delightful surprise. Unpredictability is exciting, a change from being able to expect exactly what will happen next. She tracks him down in Russia, and takes him out drinking after she catches him slicing open an assassins throat. (She gets blood on the collar of her blouse and makes him promise to buy her a new one.)

They drink good vodka and Irene slips something into the fifth or sixth shot. Sherlock lets her; he doesn't trust her, but knows that she isn't out to kill him.

He stops thinking after that.

(He woke up in a motel room the next morning, the previous night too clear in his mind. Irene was sitting on the edge of the bed next to him with paracetemol and a glass of water.

The look that she gave him was pitying, and she brushed his hair out of his face with a gentle hand. "I hadn't thought that it went both ways for you two," she murmured, tilting her head curiously. "I thought that sociopaths weren't capable of compassion."

Sherlock smirked, pulled callous insincerity over his face like a mask. "We both know I'm not compassionate."

"Oh, sweetie." She leaned forward, pressed her forehead against his. "Do you really believe that?"

They go out and kill people together; Irene giving him leads where she can.

"That phone was never my protection," she tells him, once, "my protection was always knowledge."

He takes up smoking again. The patches don't seem to be working anymore, and sometimes he needs something to do with his hands to keep from jumping up and screaming.

It's comforting, familiar. The pull of rich, smooth smoke into his lungs, then out again in a stream of white like breath in winter air.

"I'm not sure how much longer you think that you can leave this," Irene says one day over cheap gas station coffee somewhere in Tennessee.

"There's still people left," Sherlock snaps back, and hunches into himself, pulling his cup closer. "I need to finish this."

"And then what do you do when the last Moriarty's web has been cleared away? Do you stay in hiding forever?" Irene's eyes are too knowing, sharp and calculating, and Sherlock was telling the truth when he said that he thought she was clever enough to figure it out.

"Then I go home. That's why I'm doing it, remember? So I can go home."

Irene frowns, and her fingers twitch like she wants to reach out and pet him like a cat. She says, softly, "John Watson will not wait for you forever."

Sherlock breathes out smoke, says, "I know."

* * *

**a/n-** feedback is, as always, much appreciated. thank you for reading.


End file.
